He would believe no wrong of her now—it is love’s creed for the young—only the world was a beastly hole—that was all; and it was hard lines on a chap to have to come into it whether he would or no. His grief rushed him into metaphysics, an unknown quality to Jim, and he felt more himself again when he had applied for leave—and got it—to be sent to one of the most unhealthy parts of India where there was a little row on. CHAPTER XXIX “What matter how little the door, if it only lets you in!” PARIS, always in a glitter, struck both Cynthia and Geoffrey as being almost too emphatically the same. They separated after the dear, delicious lightness of the earliest French meal, one to go to the studios and try to get a skilled but unpractised hand in again, the other whimsically to the lecture-rooms, an atmosphere congenial, but thin and uncolored to one fresh from the active fight. So the first week passed, and quite unconsciously they began to imbibe the gay French surface, the triumphant shrug at the disagreeable, the bright intensity of the absorbing present. It was not that they forgot or felt less, but as if straight from the seriousness of the downstairs rooms they had strayed into the nursery and were playing at being children again. It was one morning on her way to the studio that Cynthia met an old acquaintance of hers, an emphatic American girl, who exclaimed in the arresting tones of her countrywomen:— “Why, Cynthia Grant, is that you!” Cynthia turned smiling. “Millicent!” she said, “in Paris?” “Why, certainly,” laughed Millicent gayly; “didn’t you know I was married. I couldn’t keep it up any longer. You remember Clifton Perval? He was that set! I _had_ to give in to him! But come right away home with me, Cynthia; I’ve the most perfectly lovely flat you ever saw!” Cynthia felt suddenly human. “All right,” she said, “I’ll give myself a holiday. So you are actually _living_ in Paris. You always wanted to, didn’t you?” “_Want_ to? I was just crazy. But I let my husband know I’d be planted _here_ or nowhere! So we just came. Launcelot will be just as pleased to see us——” “Who is Launcelot?” laughed her friend. “My little boy. Why, didn’t I tell you?” Her bright, keen face clouded a little. “Yes, I’ve got a child.” She paused flatly, and then fell back with ready gush on an easier line. “Don’t you think Launcelot a real pretty name? I told Clifton I’d take nothing common. No William-George effects for me! So his name is Launcelot Cummins Perval. Cummins was my name, you remember, before I married. Oh, here we are. Now isn’t it a charming location? It’s so sweet and central.” Cynthia nodded.